Filozofski vestnik | Volume XXXV | Number 2 | 2014 | 157–174 Aleš Erjavec* Beat the Whites with the Red Wedge 1. Between 1905 and 1930 in Europe the radical artistic trends—the avant-garde movements—also represented “the spearhead of modernity.” The most radical and politicized among them were Italian futurism and Russian constructivism. Others, such as Dada (as a radical but primarily non-politicized movement), the early surrealism, and the less radical expressionism, cubism, Bauhaus, and De Stijl, although they didn’t limit their “revolutions” to style and technique, they nonetheless didn’t depart from the realm of art and didn’t cross the line between art and “life.” What therefore distinguished the radical (“politicized,” “ex- treme,” “social,” “aesthetic”) avant-garde movements from the rest of the avant- gardes was that the former programmatically demanded “that art move from representing to transforming the world.”1 What this meant can be illustrated by comparing cubism and Italian futurism. In their time both were considered “revolutionary,” but in different ways. Let us take the case of Italian futurism: Life was to be changed through art, and art to become a form of life. The Futur- ist project of innovation encompassed all aspects of human existence, and was conceived as a total and permanent revolution. What was [in 1915 in a manifesto by the same name] called “Futurist Reconstruction of the Universe” was aimed at a transformation of mankind in all its physiological and psychological aspects, of 157 the social and political conditions in the modern metropolis.2 To sense the difference between futurism and cubism and thereby between pro- nouncedly politically radical and artistically radical avant-garde let us consider the following description of cubism offered by the previous cubist painter, the Mexican muralist Diego Rivera. Cubism, claimed Rivera, was 1 Boris Groys, The Total Art of Stalinism, translated by Charles Rougle, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993, 14. 2 Günter Berghaus, Futurism and Politics, Providence, RI: Berghahn Books, 1996, 47. * Institute of Philosophy, SRC SASA, Ljubljana aleš erjavec a revolutionary movement, questioning everything that has previously been said and done in art. It held nothing sacred. As the new world would soon blow itself apart, never to be the same again, so Cubism broke down forms as they had been seen for centuries, and was creating out of the fragments new forms, new objects, new patterns, and—ultimately—new worlds.3 Cubism too, argued Rivera, strove to realize the “creation of new worlds,” but we of course also sense that these “worlds” were those of the mind and not of the material historical and social reality: they were limited to art and didn’t extend beyond it, into “life.” Italian futurism—to continue this parallel reading of two very different strands of avant-garde art from a century ago—in contradistinc- tion to cubism fused art and life. To see how this futurist perspective differed from that of cubism, let me quote from an article by the futurist Giovanni Papini which was published in the journal Lacerba on December 1, 1913. The reader should note that although Papini mentions art, the stress in his article is on “life” to which “art” is obviously either subordinated or which constitutes only its segment: I am a Futurist because Futurism signifies a total appropriation of the modern civ- ilization with all its enormous wonders, its fantastic possibilities and its horrible beauties. […] I am a Futurist because I am tired of Byzantine tapestries, false intel- lectual profundity, […] of harmonious rhymes, pleasant music, pretty canvases, photographic painting, decorative, classical, antique and ambiguous painting. […] I am a Futurist because Futurism signifies love for risk-taking, for danger, for what didn’t attract us for what we have not tried, for the summit that we didn’t expect and for the abyss that we have not measured. […] I am a Futurist because Futurism signifies a desire for a greater civilization, for a more personal art, for a 158 richer sensibility and for a more heroic thinking. I am a Futurist for Futurism sig- nifies Italy as it was in the past, more worthy of its Future and its Future place in the world, more modern, more developed, more avant-garde than other nations. The liveliest fire burns today among the Futurists and I like and I am boasting that I am and remain among them.4 3 Quoted in David Craven, Art and Revolution in Latin America 1910 – 1990, New Haven: Yale University Press, 2002, 11. 4 Quoted in Giovanni Lista, Le Futurisme. Manifestes, Documents, Proclamations, Lausanne: L’Age d’homme, 1973, 91-92. beat the whites with the red wedge A similar statement can be found in Tatlin: “What happened from the social aspect in 1917 was realized in our work as pictorial artists in 1914 when ‘materi- als, volume and construction’ were accepted as our foundations.”5 If in Italy the change implemented by futurism produced among futurists such as Papini a novel sensibility, a new “distribution of the sensible” (Jacques Rancière) then for Tatlin too, radical art such as constructivism had already became a fait ac- compli, to be followed by the social upheaval, i.e. the October Revolution. What characterizes Italian futurism and Russian constructivism and distinguish- es them from cubism is that they form complete worldviews and strive to affect extra-artistic life of the national or class community, while cubism remains lim- ited to the domain of art in the sense that it is characterized by autonomy and the ensuing institution of art. To understand what that means, it suffices to remem- ber the lesson of Marcel Duchamp’s ready-mades. Duchamp’s intention when in- troducing in 1915 the ready-mades was to subvert the institution of art—to show, by bringing a urinal or a bottle-rack into an exhibition, that it is the context that makes a work into an artwork and not the other way around—an ambition in which he totally failed, for these objects, instead of serving as prime examples of non-art were swiftly assimilated into the realm of art. Or in the words of Du- champ: “I threw the bottle-rack and the urinal into the faces of [the public] as a challenge and now they admire them for their aesthetic beauty.”6 One would think that the two poles of avant-garde art—namely Italian futur- ism and Russian constructivism on the one hand and cubism or expressionism on the other—would cover the variety of artistic options developed by the early (also called “classical” or “historical”) avant-gardes from a century ago, but this was not the case, for even more radical varieties of politicized or radical avant- garde movements that questioned the legitimacy of further existence and crea- 159 tion of art were soon developed. Aleksei Gan thus in 1922 claimed: Our Constructivism has declared uncompromising war on art, because the means and properties of art are not powerful enough to systematize the feelings of the 5 Vladimir Tatlin, quoted in John E. Bowlt, Russian Art of the Avant-Garde. Theory and Criti- cism, London: Thames and Hudson 1988, 206. 6 Quoted in Edward Lucie-Smith, Movements in art since 1945, London: Thames & Hudson, 1989, 11. aleš erjavec revolutionary milieu. It is cemented by the real success of the [October] Revolu- tion and its feelings are expressed by intellectual and material production.7 In other words, constructivism wanted—independently of the events in New York triggered there at about the same time by Duchamp’s ready-mades—to eliminate art as a bourgeois invention, believing that a new society, that of revolutionary communism, required new expressive means, among which there was no place for art, for it was considered to be an obsolete part of an obsolete bourgeois society and therefore of an obsolete period in human history. To replace such past art, the constructivists went into two directions: one was productivism—the designing of useful everyday objects such as stoves and warm clothes—while the other continued the tradition of machine aesthetics (associated with anar- chism) elaborated already in the nineteenth century when a whole philosophy of industrial aestheticism developed—a tendency realized also in the Arts and Crafts movement (1860-1910) and later continued in Bauhaus. In much Western scholarship, at least, Constructivism has become an integral part of the historiography of the October Revolution and tends to be appreciated almost exclusively as an immediate result of the new political order and to be granted an inordinate primacy in the development of early Soviet culture. All the more surprising, then, is the fact that Constructivism produced very little of per- manence. It was a movement of built-in obsolescence, of ready-to-wear and throw- away, of designs often intended for multiple and mass consumption, of theories, statements, and projects which left behind a precious, but very scant, legacy of material objects. In other words, in remembering the icons of the Constructivist process, and Vladimir Tatlin’s Monument to the Third International (Figure 1) is an obvious specimen, we realize that Constructivism is now celebrated more for 160 what it did not create than for what it did.8 In the opinion of Aleksei Gan, constructivism was both a Soviet and a Western invention, but the two varieties were not the same. The distinction between them hinges precisely on the concept of art. Gan argued that, for the West, Constructiv- ism was merely the name given to the new artistic trend. “They [the West] simply 7 Aleksei Gan, Konstruktivizm, Tver 1922; quoted in Christina Lodder, Russian Constructiv- ism, New Haven: Yale University Press, 1983, 338.